by Lisa Braxton
“I am sorry about my Uncle,” Omar said.
“No, man. You don’t have to apologize for anything,” Malachi argued. “We just don’t have it in us to rent right now after what we went through. It really shook us up.”
“You do not have to explain. My uncle is upset. He thinks he shall lose everything. He does not know what to do. After the city takes the building he says he shall go back to Senegal. Then he says he shall dare them to take his building and chain himself to the front door. He is scared and desperate, but he does not want to say it. He is grieving the death of his dream.”
CHAPTER 31
OMAR ROLLED OFF the cot and onto his feet, inadvertently kicking an empty bottle of Jim Beam across the cellar floor.
He was living on liquor, pushing away the food that his uncle cooked him. He hadn’t gotten any gigs since The Fulani Sound performed at the Zenobia Club a month ago. His drumming hadn’t roused the crowd at all. He was being too careful, not putting enough power into his technique because he knew he would pay for it later. After performing, his palms ached for hours. He was sure that he was getting a reputation for his dull performances. Khadim had been taking bookings as a solo artist. It seemed that The Fulani Sound was dissolving.
Omar shuffled across Le Baobab’s basement floor, until he found the liquor bottle. He held it up to the sliver of light coming through the dirty window, then tipped it to his mouth, draining the last drop. He had a thirst for more but he’d have to go to the liquor store to get it.
The city was scheduled to take over the building today, March 30, 1973, and Uncle Mustapha had to vacate. All week long, Omar had heard Uncle Mustapha upstairs on the phone, asking people to come to Le Baobab for a protest rally. Omar felt sorry for his uncle. The loss of Le Baobab would shatter him, as had his wife’s death. Omar had tried unsuccessfully to talk Mustapha into considering another type of work to replace running the restaurant and renting the apartments, but Mustapha would talk over him, shouting that he was too busy to think about such things.
Omar had rented a room at the Bellport YMCA, but he was afraid to leave Uncle by himself considering his emotional state.
His head throbbed like it was being jack hammered. He remembered someone telling him about a home remedy for hangovers—raw eggs and vinegar mixed in a blender. Simply thinking about it made him feel sick, but Omar was desperate enough to try anything. He put on his sandals and walked upstairs into the restaurant. He was stunned. It was packed with three times the number of people who’d come for meals when the restaurant was operating.
All of the tables had been removed. Only the booths along the perimeter remained. People were standing in clusters, some from Petite Africa, others from elsewhere. They were all shouting to be heard over the din. Some were practicing chants. Omar stepped onto the bandstand to look for Mustapha. Moments later, a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Khadim.
“You look terrible, my friend. Are you growing a beard?” Khadim sniffed the air and grimaced. “When was the last time you washed?”
Omar pulled away from him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He watched people come and go. Several held picket signs that read, No Permis de Demolition, Sauvegardez Petite Africa, We Hate You Mayor, and Harborview Scum. They went outside with the signs and formed a line that marched down the block and back again.
“Where did all of these people come from?” Omar asked.
“All over, my friend. A bus came from New York. It picked up people in Connecticut and Rhode Island. All of Mustapha’s customers are back.”
“Where is he?”
Khadim raised his eyebrows as he looked over Omar’s shoulder.
The kitchen doors swung open. Clutching a megaphone, Uncle Mustapha strode past him and out the front door. Omar followed him.
The protesters spilled onto Garfield Avenue near two police cruisers. A reporter for television news station WBLP and a cameraman snaked their way to the front of the crowd.
Mustapha raised the megaphone to his lips, aiming it toward the police “Yow bujul! Yow bujul! You go to hell,” he screamed. Immediately, the crowd took up the taunt, yelling at the police in Wolof.
Two cops jumped out of their vehicles and talked into their radios. Mustapha rushed back inside. Omar followed him. “Uncle, where are you going?” he asked.
Mustapha turned in his direction with an unfocused, faraway look in his eyes. He swung back around and headed through the double doors into the kitchen. When Omar caught up with him, he heard the pong, pong, pong sound of sandals on the fire escape. He scrambled up the fire escape to the roof as Mustapha lifted his megaphone and shouted at the crowd below. Omar wished he had grabbed a coat. It was bitterly cold on the roof because it was early spring and windy. One of the cops shouted through his bullhorn, “Come down from there, sir, or we’ll have to arrest you.”
“On what grounds?” Mustapha yelled, switching to English. “You have no arresting rights on me.”
“Provoking public disorder,” the cop shouted.
Omar grabbed his uncle by the arm. He was amazed that Mustapha didn’t seem fazed by the cold. “Uncle, you must listen to them. It is over. There is nothing to be done.”
Mustapha turned to face Omar, his eyes wild. “You want me to have dialogue with police!” he shouted.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Okay. I am.”
He shuffled to the edge of the roof, the wind flapping his shirt like a flag against his frail body. Omar went to grab him, fearing the wind would blow him over, but Mustapha backed away from the ledge and went back to the fire escape.
Once inside the restaurant dining room, Mustapha grabbed the framed photo of President Senghor off the wall, held it to his chest, and looked around as if wondering what to do with it. He flung the picture onto the bar. Then he collapsed into Omar’s arms. “They do not arrest me. They do not take my home,” he cried.
Omar pleaded with his uncle. “It is not your home anymore. They paid you. You can get a new home.”
“But then they destroy my restaurant, my building.” Mustapha wailed. “They destroy all that I have. They give me money for my building but it is little, and not fair market value.”
“But you agreed to this!” Omar shouted.
“I don’t know why I sign those papers!” Mustapha shouted back.
Omar had never seen his uncle in such a state. He tried to think of a way to calm him down. “You can start over, start over someplace new. I shall help you. Khadim shall help you. Look at the people out there. They shall help you get a new restaurant.”
Mustapha pulled himself up and looked toward the front door. Then his shoulders slumped. “I am a seventy-two-year-old man. I cannot start over,” he sighed.
“Think about all of the people who showed up for you today, Uncle. They love you. They will want another Le Baobab, even if it is a mouse hole in the wall.”
Mustapha became quiet. He seemed to be calming down. Omar loosened his hold on him. But then Mustapha pushed passed Omar, knocking over decorative gourds that were still on the bar and bumping into a table stacked with leftover picket signs. The signs went crashing to the floor.
“I am tired,” his uncle said weakly, as he made his way to the back of the restaurant to the staircase leading to his apartment on the second floor. Omar followed him. Sweat streamed down the back of his uncle’s neck. His shirt was wet and sticking to him. When they got to the second floor landing, Mustapha surged ahead and shut himself in his apartment.
“Uncle,” Omar shouted. He got no response. He stood there catching his breath, trying to decide what to do next. Maybe his uncle needed a moment alone. Omar decided to go back downstairs and check on the activity of the protesters. When he got outside, he couldn’t believe how much the crowd had grown. It had spilled onto the next block.
Three more police cruisers had arrived. All
of the cops stood outside of their cars talking into their walkie talkies. He heard sirens in the distance, probably more cop cars on the way.
“Mr. Bassari? Mr. Bassari?”
Omar looked around at the sound of his name being called. It was the female TV reporter for the local station, petite, wearing a lot of makeup, with hair that didn’t move.
“Why did your uncle organize this protest?” she asked. “The city said it paid him fair market value.”
Omar stared at the microphone the reporter had shoved in his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cameraman focusing his lens on him.
“I shall not speak for my uncle. You must speak to him directly.”
The reporter lost her balance as she was jostled by the crowd. In a moment, she regained it.
“Where is he?” she asked. “We want to get his side of the story.”
Omar brushed past her and went back inside. He wanted to check on Uncle to make sure he was all right. Maybe he could convince his uncle to be reasonable, to call off the protesters and leave the building so the city could begin demolition. Surely uncle could stay with his daughter Ansa or any number of friends until he decided where he wanted to live.
Omar was surprised to find the door to the apartment unlocked. The place was dark with the curtains drawn. He called out to his uncle but got no response. Mustapha’s bedroom door was cracked open. Omar went inside. The sparsely furnished room was bathed in late afternoon sunlight. The sound of the protestors could be heard through the window. Mustapha was on the bed, lying very still. His eyes were shut, his skin ashen. Omar went over to him.
“Uncle?”
Mustapha’s eyes fluttered open.
Omar exhaled. He had thought his uncle was dead. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little tired,” Mustapha whispered. He lifted his hand slightly off the bed.
Omar took it between both of his and sat next to him on the bed. “You want me to call someone? An ambulance?”
Mustapha shook his head weakly.
A photo on the dresser got Omar’s attention. It was the only adornment in the room. It was a framed picture of Mustapha’s wife, Samir. Uncle didn’t talk about her much, but Omar knew he missed her dearly.
“Nephew, we win, right?” asked Mustapha.
“What do you mean, Uncle?”
“We win?” he asked again, his voice barely audible.
Omar was confused by the question. Then he noticed that Uncle was smiling and looking in the direction of the window, apparently hearing the protesters.
“Yes, Uncle. You did good. We won.”
Omar laid his head on his uncle’s chest and listened for a long time until his heart was stilled. Then he kissed his uncle on the forehead.
“I shall miss you, Uncle,” he said. He began crying uncontrollably.
CHAPTER 32
“GLAD YOU WERE ABLE to come in on such short notice.” Max gestured for Sydney to sit down in the chair opposite him. “I know you’ve got the bookstore and all, but this is big.” Max’s secretary had called Sydney in for an important meeting. It was Sydney’s day off from The Talking Drum. She’d spent the morning filling out paperwork to extend her leave from law school for one more year.
“It sounded important,” Sydney replied, “so I’m here.”
“I appreciate that.” He took off his glasses. “Got a couple of things.” He reached into a folder on his desk and pulled out several black-and-white photos. Sydney recognized her work. She had taken the photos at the scene of the fire at Esmé’s Africa Wear last October, after their grand opening. She felt sick as she relived the moment she saw Esmé burned beyond recognition and wheeled out of her shop on a stretcher. Max took a grease pencil, and circled an oblong, grainy figure in the background of one of the pictures.
“One of my best sources left the department so it took me months to find out that the police had your photos blown up. They now know who this person is.”
Sydney looked closer to study a silhouette in the background. She had no idea who it was but the person appeared to be a man with a chunky build. “And they think he’s the arsonist?”
“They are pretty damn sure.” He took the photo back. “You did a great job.”
“I was just shooting all over the place.”
He held up a hand. “Take credit when credit is given. In the newspaper business, it doesn’t come too often. We normally only get attention when we get something wrong.”
“Has this been on the news yet?”
“Five o’clock—TV and radio. We’ll have a special press run and your photos will be featured. Have it on the streets within the hour.”
He put the folder back in his desk, along with the grease pencil. “You can expect to hear from the Globe.”
“Why?”
He smiled. “They want you to work for them as a stringer.”
She didn’t know what to think. “The Boston Globe? You’re kidding me, right?”
“A lot of fill-in work, covering municipal meetings in Bellport that their staff reporters can’t get to, taking photos, covering some breaking news when they’re short-handed.”
“Sounds like scut work.”
He leaned forward in his seat. “It’s called ‘paying your dues’. That’s how I got started.”
She had enjoyed filing stories and taking photos for Inner City Voice, but they were the kinds of stories she had wanted to write. Then she had to think about her responsibilities at The Talking Drum. Malachi had made her schedule flexible so she could complete the occasional newspaper assignments, but she doubted he would go along with her spending more time away from the bookstore. She shared her reservations with Max.
He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded steeple-like under his chin. “Think it over, Mrs. Stallworth. This would be an avenue to work your way up in journalism. The Boston Globe is one of the top newspapers in the country, a black woman with credentials like yours at a white newspaper like the Globe, you’d be a pioneer of sorts.”
“But I haven’t ruled out going back to law school,” she said.
“Women have been fighting for years to get into the newsroom as reporters instead of clerks and secretaries.”
“I know, but that’s not a reason to take the position.”
“You’re right.” He exhaled, impatient. “At least talk to them when they call. Meet with them.”
The phone rang. As Max listened, his grip on the receiver tightened. Sydney couldn’t tell what was going on, but she knew it was serious. “That was one of my sources.” Max explained when he hung up. “Something’s happened to the old man, the activist.”
“Uncle Mustapha?” Sydney started wringing her hands. “What is it?”
She started to feel ill. The look on Max’s face had already given her the answer to her question.
CHAPTER 33
BELLPORT GAZETTE
Bellport Police have made an arrest in connection with a series of suspicious fires this past year and a half in the South End of the city, commonly known as “Petite Africa.” Lawrence Briggs, 25, of Bellport, was taken into custody last night. He confessed that he started a series of fires in unoccupied and abandoned buildings throughout Petite Africa.
Bellport arson investigators report that more arrests are expected, as they look for Brigg’s accomplices. He was ordered held on cash-only bail and will be arraigned in circuit court next week.
Sydney snapped off the clock radio. So Lawrence had hung around the scene of the fires he’d set. And she was lucky enough to catch him in the frame of one of the shots she took at the fire at Esmé’s Africa Wear. She rolled over to the empty side of the bed and listened as Malachi came up the stairs.
He slowly cracked open the bedroom door and stuck his head inside. Then he returned his pillows to his side of the bed as he had been doing for the
past few months since their troubles. “I went down to the jail,” he said, sounding tired.
“Why?” Sydney asked. “Why would he do that?”
Malachi let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. Greed. Money.”
They said nothing for a while.
“He poured gasoline in old milk jugs, stuffed rags in the neck, and then lit the rags with a lighter.” Malachi shook his head. “He’s angry. He’s lashing out. He said because I made him quit when I accused him of stealing from us, he didn’t have enough money for school. Someone had been after him for months to help burn down some buildings, and because of me he finally agreed. He said burning down those buildings was the only way he could cover his tuition.”
“That’s bull,” she shouted.
He sat down at the foot of the bed and faced her.
“Is it?”
She propped herself up. “Malachi, what are you saying?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Syd. I was his mentor and I let him down. I assumed he was stealing from us and he wasn’t.”
“Lawrence seemed suspicious when those things went missing. Anyone else would have questioned him, too. Don’t let him mess with your head.”
“I can’t help but wonder if I went wrong somewhere. Maybe I didn’t spend enough time with him after he got out of reform school.”
“Malachi,” Sydney leaned over and took him by the hand, “stop doing this to yourself. You got him into Whittington University, for heaven’s sake!”
“I was so caught up in being, ‘Mr. Professor,’ trying to get tenure. I should have been thinking of somebody other than myself.”
Sydney knew Malachi wasn’t being rational, yet she tried to reason with him.
“What do you mean? You were so generous with your time. What about all the hours you volunteered with the kids in the Black Student Union? And think about how you got Lawrence involved in the drama department, making sets and props. That was a beautiful thing.”